The Greek's Pregnant Bride

‘Show me what?’

He straightened his shirt, then turned back to face her. ‘I’ll take you to meet her. You can see for yourself why I don’t want my mother anywhere near our wedding.’

* * *

The car came to a stop outside an immaculate two-storey house in a quiet Athenian suburb.

No sooner had the engine been turned off than Christian got out, not bothering to wait for the driver to open the door for him.

The entire drive had been conducted in silence, Christian sitting ramrod-straight, only the whiteness of his knuckles betraying what lay beneath his skin.

It was a demeanour Alessandra had never seen from him before. It unnerved her.

That he’d cancelled his first appointment of the day had unnerved her even more; that, and the grim way he’d said, ‘Let’s get it over with.’

deep sense of dread that she followed him out of the car and

appeared at the door, lines all over

turned on her heel and walked back

was pristine, a strong smell

could have been a beautiful home

looking through her when Alessandra said, ‘Hárika ya tin gnorimía,’— ‘pleased to meet you’—a phrase she’d

the stench of bleach was even stronger. No refreshments

Elena’s attention was on her son. She was speaking harshly to him in quick-fire Greek, whatever she said enough to make the pulse in his jawline throb. When he replied, his answers were short

never sat in such a poisonous atmosphere as this, or felt as

blue as Christian’s but were like a frozen winter morning without an ounce of

skin feel as icy as Elena’s eyes. But Christian couldn’t leave it to imaginings. He’d lived it,

wonder Christian eschewed any form of emotional entanglement when this

mind flitted back to their many conversations at Mikolaj’s taverna. She’d said the name Markos stood for guts and determination but had not appreciated then exactly how great his determination must have been, not just to drag himself and